


desperate acts

by miraculan



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anders (Dragon Age) Positive, Arishok battle, Blood Magic, Canon-Typical Violence, Dragon Age II - Act 2, Gen, M/M, i think hawke is a last resort sort of blood mage, near death ghost talk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:07:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26805619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraculan/pseuds/miraculan
Summary: the first time mage hawke resorts to blood magic, during the arishok fight.
Relationships: Anders/Male Hawke, Male Hawke & Varric Tethras
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	1. a mage in a sword fight

**Author's Note:**

> moderate blood/gore if you're squeamish in this one. im on tumblr at miraculan-draws, i post a lot of art on there!

Hawke couldn’t go on like this for much longer. He was practically sick with the heat of physical exertion and the bone deep chill of mana exhaustion. There wasn’t time in between the Arishok’s charges to dig in his pack for lyrium potion, and he only had enough in reserve to cast single bolts of frost that would slow but not halt his opponent.........

The sickening crunch of being pinned to the wall was not entirely his ribcage, though the reality wasn’t much more encouraging. He opened his soaked pack and poured it on the ground; elf root and lyrium-stained shards of glass fell to the floor like snow and chimed musically on impact.

The whole crowd gasped. How many people were watching him now? Every noble in the city was now intimately aware that their least favorite noble and most favorite mercenary was a mage. There were Templars here, too. Hell, even Meredith was looking at his potion bottle shards with absolute dread. Figures. The loom of war with a foreign power is usually enough to stall even the deepest prejudices. 

He swayed on his feet and momentarily leaned back against the pillar that he had been previously hurled against, vision fuzzy and short of breath. His rib is hurting his lung, he thinks distantly. Is it breaking through? He’s wheezing now and there’s a commotion in the crowd-, must be another charge. He opens his eyes and readies another role but he stops in his tracks.

He can’t see anything but red. War paint, closer than it ought to be, and two arms outstretched. He tries distantly to move, to attempt the dodge but he can’t lift a finger. The crowd is in a frenzy.

Ah, he realized. He had already missed the dodge. He can’t move because of the sword going through him and into the pillar.

He can’t feel it yet, oddly enough. He can see fine now, sees the Arishok looming over him, just as worn and tired as Hawke is. He can hear less than he can see, but it’s his friends who are gaining volume as the nobles fall into an anxious hush. Aveline is the loudest, she’s telling him to get up. Up? Oh. He’d fallen. He was on his knees. When did the sword come out? He didn’t feel it. Sebastian and Anders both are yelling the same few words almost in sync. _ His other pack, check the other pack _ .

Hawke manages to lift the correct arm, which feels like someone else’s, to his left side pouch. He fumbles with the snap, weak handed like he just woke up from a long sleep. He grabs a hold of a blessedly cool bottle, hoping it was elfroot. It’s not elfroot, of course, it’s lyrium. He’s so wrung out of his own mana that the bottle feels like it’s physically vibrating in his hand.

He reaches up to uncork it with his teeth, but his hand slips around the glass, slick with blood. He hears the bottle hit the ground and roll, also hears Varric call him a stupid son of a bitch and quite possibly “useless whore” but he doesn’t know if he’ll get to confirm.

He reaches out to grab at the vial but falters, having to catch his own weight on one arm. A deep voice hums somewhere in his vicinity, followed by the horned giant limping back into Hawke’s shrinking and unsteady line of sight. He’s getting fuzzy around the edges, dark and sleepy and nauseous.

“Stay down, Hawke.” The Qunari panted, stepping on the potion bottle with a great armored boot. The crunch was deafening, bouncing off the high ceilings to echo like a choir in a chantry. “You fought admirably.”

Hawke was left to stare dumbly at the languidly oozing puddle of mana potion on the ground. It moved like ichor on the marble floor, stained like blue ink where it soaked into the rug. He was starting to feel it, the wound. The pain was dull and far away, but a wave of queasiness made him lurch and heave, and the clenching of those muscles lit up into a hotter pain. Hawke wretched more blood than bile, watching it move and stain just as the potion bottle did. He’s getting hazier- feels like he’s floating, feels like he’s heavy as marble, just a part of the floor, another statue for the courtyard.

He heard the Arishok addressing the crowd, scolding them and preaching at them for their weakness, their chaos, their frivolity. Hawke agreed with about two-thirds of his complaints. He thought he heard him address Fenris, who was shockingly quiet in his reply. He hears Anders quite literally pleading with him, begging in a hushed and trembling tone. 

Hawke can still see, but can’t wrench his eyes away from the twin stains on the rug. He peels his gaze lazily upward, manages to get propped up on his knees to at least die with some dignity. He wanted to apologize to the others but has precious little wind to spare for it. He wants to tell Anders he loves him, wants to tell Fenris he forgives him for this gruesome death that he half expected already, wants to tell Varric not to let this darken him. Hawke doesn’t really even have the energy to shed a tear for them. 

His head lulls and rolls back and he has to actively try to right it, gives it a shake and opens his eyes wider for a moment as though it would help him see better, as if it would let in more light. As the Arishok turns back to face him, his eyes drift, almost seduced back to the twin stains on the ground. Lyrium and carnage. He thinks, distantly, that Mana and Blood have been recurring themes in his lifetime. They make a fitting final sight, as if to say ‘Did you learn nothing from us?’

In a moment of delirium, he realizes that he wants very badly to take that self-righteous beast out with him. If he can’t win, no one can. A long-standing and childish trait of being the oldest sibling, he chuckled to himself. His little giggle drew some attention, eyes darting back and forth and mostly full of tears. 

He is now intimately aware of the size and shape of the wound in his torso, the amount of blood on the floor, and the amount still left in his body. The ratios are wrong and he doesn’t have the means to right them, so he might as well push on. He reaches over to grab his staff- his fathers that he had found, with nearly a full sword as a blade- to prop himself up on. He won’t die kneeling. 

With his hand hovering not an inch from his weapon, he noticed that it too hummed in his weak hands, just like the glass did. Vibrating between his hand and the battle-slick floor, viscera making it difficult to grip, and yet still it hummed. Purred. Sang, even. It felt good in his hand, took his attention away from pain and away from his quickly encroaching doom. He found he could pull on the sensation just a touch, could manipulate the feeling further inward, where it numbed the wound strangely, could gently push it back to the staff. 

_ ‘Not to the staff, not the staff..’  _

He looked down at the floor, the twice-stained rug, the marble sickeningly slick, his staff is soaked-

He put a hand on the flooded hole under his heart, he could pull and push there too, it nuzzled deep and almost sweet. It sang. Viscous. Gooey. Ichor and ink.

He gripped his staff more firmly, the blade cutting into the rug as he used every ounce of will to pull his body up to a standing position. Not standing tall necessarily, not a grand posture, but upright is better than not. The crowd is as silent as a grave. They don’t cheer him on, nor do they whisper amongst themselves. 

“You have been a worthy adversary, Hawke.” The Arishok told him, almost kindly. His stride was still off kilter as he approached, putting one of his swords away in favor of the other.

Hawke took his weight off his staff in order to hold it loosely in his hand, taking a few paces backwards and watching closely. For every step the giant took forward, Hawke took another stilted one back, until he was within earshot of his companions. Anders tried to tell him something but he had no time to listen.

“Varric, I would like to make a request.” He panted lightly. He couldn’t inflate his lungs to capacity, but he wouldn’t need them much longer.

“I’m all ears.”

“When you write this back, don’t make me seem like a Marcher, I fucking hate this city. Also-“

Before he could request that this part of the story be blacked out, before he could request to be a handsome and sweet chantry boy who asks for the maker to bless his shield and carry his sword, The Arishok had started his final charge. Hawke stepped away from his friends and just Stood, still as a statue. 

“Hawke!”

“If you’re planning another dodge your last one sucked ass Hawke!”

“Garrett, what the hell are you-“

The Arishok's left boot made contact with the rug and stuck, as though walking through pitch. He stumbled but caught himself, to do so putting his other foot in the same sticky-slick dilemma, into the blood that had soaked through, into  _ Hawke’s blood on the floor he could feel it even when it was away from him- _

Hawke strode up to the tyrant as quick as his feet would allow, reaching for blood from his own wound and pushing it outward,  _ reaching reaching reaching _ and grabbing one huge gray arm, locked now with a spectre's hand. He did the same on the other, this time using the Arishok's own wound against him. Hawke quickly realizes he’ll run out of time before he can strike the final blow and so he reaches for the Arishok again, channeling thick and heady blood from his opponents decimated leg back to his own wound. He watched half spell-bound himself as the Qunari's leg worsened, shriveled and blackened like a corpse as Hawke’s lungs knitted back together enough to buy back valuable milliseconds. The Arishok is bound by both arms and down one leg, and Hawke prepares his own charge for once tonight.

In a swiftness only granted to the dying, Hawke turns his staff around to use the blade, wielding it like he and Carver would wield wooden swords as boys. His form with the blade is more than adequate, he’s no Marcher noble. The strength of his arms should be power enough, he is no wilted tower mage. With a scream so guttural it sounds like it came from someone else, he roars, he sees red, he swings-

...

The silence is broken by the beast’s horned head hitting the floor. The body takes longer to tumble, and makes a duller sound on the rug, low and heavy. Someone screams, someone wretches, someone actually pukes, but Hawke isn’t paying attention. He’s furious, he’s dead. A Qunari might have killed him, but it was the Chantry who provoked them, the Chantry who offered Hawke up like a lamb so as not to expose its corrupted and rotted underbelly-

With single-minded focus, he grabs the curve of a once handsome horn and secures his grip to lift, heavier than he thought. He begins a lazy and slightly uneven stride to the front of the room, where the clerics are crowded. Where Elthina is standing. Where Orsino is, where Meredith is,-

He tosses his staff on the ground as he walks, and it makes a sound like a soldier dropping a shield, metallic and loud. Defense discarded. The jewelry in the Arishok’s ear clinks together like bells as he goes.

Close enough to meet their gaze, Hawke tosses the Arishok’s severed head at their feet. It splatters blood onto Elthina’s robes, and when it lands it’s looking Meredith right in the eye. Her countenance is as stoney as ever but there is ice cold rage in her eye.

She opens her mouth to speak, but no sound comes out as the crowd erupts into applause. Deafening cheer, shrill horror, and mob-like confusion. She hushes them, she speaks to the room and to him, to  _ Hawke _ , but he doesn’t hear. He can still feel the wound. 

The room goes black, and he vaguely remembers hitting his head on the marble floor.

———————————————


	2. True Tests Never End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit from Malcolm

Wherever he finds himself now, it’s awfully breezy. The wind is blissfully cool, and only a little damp. It’s not always hot in Kirkwall but it is always damp and sticky. This doesn’t feel like Kirkwall. Where he lies now, the air itself is temperate enough but the wind is cold and his face and the earth is cold at his back.

He opens his eyes into an immediate squint, sleepy vision sensitive to the unique brightness only found in a completely overcast sky, the blinding gray of an autumn horizon. There’s not really an autumn in the Free Marches, he muses.

He doesn’t rise, he’s comfortable right here. The cold isn’t so brutal as to be unpleasant, and the wind is such a constant sound passing his ears that it almost puts him right back to sleep. He breathes deep, smelling orchard grass and ash and black tea.

“Winter won’t be long now.” Someone speaks, startling Hawke from leisurely lying to rigidly lying. A familiar pattern, soft-spoken but not inaudible; a quietness picked up out of habit for people with low voices so as not to startle and boom. Hawke never really found the skill, remembers being hushed after every word from 14 to 20. After that someone would usually just swat him.

“It’ll be a harsh one, this. You’ll want to make sure you’re either well prepared, or save your more adventurous schemes for the spring.” The voice continued, growing more familiar as it went along. Hawke managed to prop himself up, less sore than he remembered, to sit up fully.

The man on his left was sitting on a quilt that he was also repairing, knobby hands weaving an elaborate stitch on a seam that would have done just fine with a crude one. The man’s eyes were focused, brow pinched, peering intently through the spectacles sitting primly on his nose. His hair was more salt than pepper and he had a beard to match, wore a ratty old green sweater that Hawke is sure he still has in his closet somewhere.

“Papa?” Hawke asked, face scrunched in confusion, voice rough with sleep.

“Morning, sunshine.” Malcolm mumbles, entirely focused on his stitch, which he must have fumbled because he cursed quietly and began snipping with tiny scissors. “You heard me, yeah?”

“A hard winter...for the farm?” He said, looking back down over the village. It’s Lothering, he realizes. He knows where he’s sitting, their little cottage is just behind him, he can see the chantry and the tavern and the bridge-

“No, harsh winter for travel. If you have to keep moving, I mean.” Malcolm said, putting down his busy-work. “You’ve put down too many roots. It’ll be hard to dig them out.”

“Hm.” Hawke nodded, relaxed despite the realization that he’s either dead or in the Fade, and if he’s in the Fade he doesn’t know who he’s really sitting with. 

“That was quite the spectacle. Hard to watch, but harder to look away from.”

Hawke can’t meet his eye, hasn’t yet. Malcolm Hawke was a practical mage, yet one raised in the circles all the same. When he first told Bethany and Garrett what blood magic was, he wasn’t trying to scare them, but he didn’t dilute his words either. ‘Some mages draw magic from blood instead of mana, their own or someone else’s. It marks a mage for life, to the Chantry and to fade spirits. It is a desperate act.’

“I had never used blood before that.” He mumbled, picking at the grass under his legs. “Never really even crossed my mind.”

“Dear boy, you’ve never had the need.” His father spoke, with such a strange conviction that Hawke did meet his eye, watched him take off his spectacles and run a hand through his long hair.

“I would not scorn you for choosing the profane over defeat, or over death. Your own or that of another.” He shook his head here, almost laughed. “You cast it well, though. Seem to have an aptitude for it.”

“What, an aptitude for getting the shit beat out of me? On the regular?”

“That’s not all it takes, if you recall.” Malcolm sassed back. He looks both fond and irritated, and then just fond. “You can’t afford to be careless with it, or overconfident, or even worse  _ dependent _ . But more so, I think, you cannot afford to be unpracticed.”

“Is that what you offer?” Hawke asked. Demons are skilled actors out of necessity. Few have plagued him or hunted him like other mages have complained, but he’s painted a target on his back now. Can’t afford to get lazy just because he’s tired. Or dead. If he was dead it probably wasn’t a demon.

“Very wise.” Malcolm nodded. “But no. My hand has been forced once, but I am not well-versed or well informed. Why would the Circle teach a mage how to counter a Templar? Better to brand it an absolute evil.”

Hawke scooted to sit closer to his father, to get a corner of the quilt to drape over his legs. It was a little chilly in the wind, but he was scared this would disappear if they went inside.

“I know someone who can tell me more practically about blood magic, should I decide to add it to the rotation. Without the Chantry bullshit to wade through, anyway.” Hawke said.

“A mage? Or simply a scholar?”

“A Dalish mage. A very dear friend of mine. Trust her with my life, honestly.” 

“I’ll put my mind at ease, then. The Dalish are clever with magic.” Malcolm adjusted his work angle to give Garrett more of the blanket. “My father’s mother was Dalish. His father a Chasind man.”

“Really? I don’t think I knew that. I don’t think I know much about your family at all, actually, but I suppose I can blame the Circle for that too.”

“You live like an Amell now, but the name Hawke is as old as Fereldan. Calenhad’s right hand man, most trusted advisor and fighter, was a mage named Hawke. Together they united Fereldan under one flag and one name.”

There was a comfortable silence. The wind picked up enough to rustle the leaves in the trees and make the tall grass sway and dance. Children were playing somewhere, squealing with laughter as a woman called after them. He could see the shapes of them in the village but not their faces.

“This is the Fade?” Hawke wondered aloud, resting his chin on his knees.

“Probably.” Malcolm replied, taking up his stitching once again by rethreading his needle. “You’ve announced yourself to many spirits, tonight. You’ll want to be vigilant in the coming weeks.”

“I am always vigilant.”

Malcolm tied one last knot and rose, his knee popping as he got to full height. He shook out his newly repaired quilt, holding it up to inspect it for any more wear and tear. He seemed satisfied, walked right up to Garrett and draped it over his shoulders. The edges met in the front, and Hawke grabbed them without thinking, sinking into the feeling of being tucked in. Malcolm’s hand landed on his shoulder, but not before prodding at the piece of gray hair on his son’s temple.

“Know the tools in your arsenal. Know when it’s time to move.” He said softly. Hawke was so tired still, starting to get sore when he hadn’t been in pain at all since he woke here. Not awake, he supposes. “Keep your friends close.” His father continued as he dozed.

“And keep your wits about you, mage.” 

Hawke jolts truly awake with a hard flick on his ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hold Malcolm like a potato, I just think he’s neat.


End file.
